America and the Green Leafy Food
by SheWasFlying
Summary: America popped the top open and breathed in deeply. Ah, what a wonderful smell, and who knew he would ever think of such a thing as tasty? "America, is that. . . is that a salad?"
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: SheWasFlying does not own Hetalia: Axis Powers. There. I said it. Happy? Gosh.

A/N: Ok. Howdy! Forgive me for making this author's note choppy, but here: it is 4:55 in the morning, I am exhausted, my brain is mush, and I am new to Hetalia. So please, let me know how I've done with this? I've read quite a few Hetalia stories already, but this'll be my first time writing one myself, so I'm kinda nervous. Or, at least, I'd be nervous if I wasn't so sleepy.

Also, I'm uploading this on a whim, which is dangerous, but that's how I roll, dawg!

Thank you, and enjoy!

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**America and the Green Leafy Food**

It was only a couple of hours into the 2012 World Conference when Germany called for a lunch break, jaw clenched. The nations stood and stretched and massaged their sore butts and headed off, knowing for certain that they had at least three hours to waste while they waited for Germany to chill out. This might have been a little disconcerting to America, since the meeting was taking place in England's homeland, which was _so bo-oring_ (not really; America just liked to say so to make England start sputtering and get all red and funny) but he'd brought a butt-load of comic books along in his backpack, so he was good.

He joined England outside the meeting place (as did France and Canada) and even though England scoffed and glared at all of them, America knew the Brit was happy to have them all follow him, 'cause they all always ended up together anyway, and 'cause England was a funny guy when it came to showing his glee. And so with suitcases, lunch bags and (in America's case) super awesome backpack in tow, the three visiting nations followed the host to a lovely park (America wasn't going to admit that to England, either.)

The sky was sunnier than usual, and the temperature was pleasant. England led them to a large tree by a sparkling pond, where they stood in the ample shade to admire the view (England preened and admired his beautiful land, France smirked and admired England, Canada admired the way the sun played on the rippling surface of the water, and America admired that everyone would admire his lakes even more.)

"Okay!" America dropped his backpack onto the ground (England could whine all he want about his backpack, but it was leather and black and _totally_ professional,) yanked the zipper down, and pulled out a wide blanket. It was blue, and soft, and had a bunch of big red and white stars stitched all over it. It was _awesome_. "Lunch time!"

"Do you always carry blankets around on your back?"

"Only when I know you're gonna take us to one of your parks for lunch, bro!"

"H-how did you-?"

"I know you too well, man." America ignored England's scowl and spread the blanket out in the shade.

Mere minutes later, the four blonde men was resting in various positions on the blanket. A group of women joggers jogged by, watching the men as they passed. France smiled and winked and oozed a _Oui, we are sexy, and don't I know it,_ aura.

"So, Canada," England began. He pulled a sandwich, a bag of crisps, a chocolate chip biscuit and a bottle of water from his lunch bag, and began to set them up neatly before him. "What's this I hear about you tightening security along your border?"

Setting his own sandwich and cookie aside, Canada answered with an exasperated gaze. Of course England would only pay attention to him if it meant bugging America. Le sigh. He glanced at his southern brother warily. "Oh, w-well, yes, but it's only because. . . ."

America wasn't listening. He eyed the others' lunches. Pfft. Sandwiches and cookies. _Pfft!_ And France, with his appetizer, entrée, desert and his fancy silverware. Hah! So lame. So yesterday! Didn't they know what was totally _in_ for lunch these days?

America pulled his lunch bag from his backpack with a flourish and tenderly pulled from it a Tupperware bowl (with a blue top) a bottle of Fiji water, a shiny, fat apple, and a plastic spork.

So in_._ So awesome.

He rolled around until he was comfortably laying on his belly, legs crossed at the ankles (not spread, oh heck no, as if he was going to let France start up on that again) and popped the top of his Tupperware off. He breathed in deeply and grinned. Oh, _yum_. Yes, this was good. Michelle knew him too well, seriously. She'd made his lunch _perfectly_; oh, what an awesome woman. He really had her to thank for his new obsession, even though he had never wanted to be obsessed with it in the first place. Who would have thought that he, Alfred F. Jones, _the_ United States of America, would ever find this smell so wonderful?

He stabbed his spork into the bowl a few times, making sure to pick up a little bit of everything, and savored the first bite of his beloved lunch. _Yes._

Oh, God. Seriously. This was just too goo—

"America?"

America raised his eyes. England, France, and his brother what's-his-face were staring at him.

"Hum?"

England gaped. He pointed warily, and for some reason seemed unsure of himself. "America, is that . . . is that a _salad_?"

Oh! Was that all?

"Yeah, man! My favorite! Ice burg lettuce with strips of breaded chicken and these tiny orange wedges that I think are called Mandarin oranges and sliced almonds and _oh my God, it's so good, you guys._" They stared. America blinked. "Seriously, it's good! You guys should try a salad every once in a while, you don't know what you're missing out on."

America then focused all his attention once again on his lunch.

France, England, and Canada continued to stare at him for a moment longer before looking at each other. And by the looks in each other's eyes, they knew they were all thinking the same thing.

There was something terribly wrong with America.

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A/N: And so there you have it. I plan to update this either every Wednesday or every Saturday, depending on my schedule. How'd I do? Was it boring? It's been a while since I've written anything, and it's great to be back, and I hope I didn't do too terribly! Constructive criticism is much loved!

(Oh, gawd, I'm probably going to regret uploading this later, but right now I'm sleepy, so whatevs.)


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers. That is all.

A/N: Just wanna say thanks to those dear people that left reviews, especially the anon who left some very helpful critique-you guys are awesome. I would also like to apologize for taking forever to update. Alas, my muse has not been kind to me lately.

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_The next day…_

America was eating a salad.

A salad_._

Again_._

Two days in a row.

England blinked. Twice. He frowned and looked away, then looked back, and blinked again.

Nope, this was no illusion. America, Alfred F. Jones, was munching away at a salad. A _salad._ _America_ was eating a_ salad. Again._

Dear Lord, the world really was going to end.

"Francis."

"Hmm?" France looked away from gaggle of women he'd been staring at to raise a questioning eyebrow at England.

"Look."

"_Oh-hon,_ _mon Angleterre_, I am looking, believe me—"

"Not at them, frog! Look over _there!_"

"Oh? And what is over th—_mon dieu!_ Is that Alfred?"

"I-I think so, yes." England ran a shaky hand through his hair. Now he was certain he wasn't seeing things. America was eating a salad, for the second day in a row, and he wasn't spitting it out, and he didn't _seem_ nauseous, and _good God, _was that a bottle of water?

"Perhaps-" France paused. Frowned. "Perhaps he is acting upon a dare?"

"P-perhaps. Yes, yes, that must be it."

They stared at the young nation for a few more minutes, watched him steadily clean his Tupperware of its green leafy contents and drink from a clear bottle of water. It was fifteen minutes into their lunch break on the second day of conference, and America was sitting cross-legged beneath a wide tree outside the meeting hall where the conference was being held. He had a comic book in one hand, and a plastic spork in the other; the plastic container was balanced on his knee.

England had been on his way to procure some lunch of his own, the French idiot had followed as he always did, and as they left the building, _something_ had made the hairs on the back of England's neck stand on end. He'd expected something far less unsettling than what he was seeing now.

Was he supposed to be glad? He'd been trying to get his former charge to eat healthier meals for years now (and yes, constantly telling the idiot he was fat _was_ his way of trying; thank you for asking, now be quiet) and he supposed he _should_ have been happy to see America finally eating something that was not a calorie nightmare. But. . . well, he just couldn't find it in himself to be happy.

He was worried. Confused. Frightened.

France apparently shared his feelings. "Should we perhaps speak to him? See if there is something wrong with _mon_ dear _Amérique?_"

"I was about to suggest that." England huffed. "Come along, and stop stealing the words out of my mouth!"

They trekked across the lawn, their concern growing with every step. America was still engrossed in his comic book when they reached him, absently stabbing at the partially finished salad with his spork. Now that he was close enough, England was able to see just what type of salad America was eating. It was the same as the one he'd been eating the day before, when they'd had lunch together. There was lettuce and strips of breaded chicken breast, with sliced almonds and small orange-like wedges sprinkled throughout.

It had to be a joke. A bloody prank. Bloody stupid American playing a bloody stupid prank.

England pursed his lips and stared down at America, who still had yet to take notice of the two blonde nations standing over him. _Idiot._ France opened his mouth to speak-

England struck.

"Wha—_hey!_" America jerked back and gaped at England, who had snatched his salad right off of his knee with a '_ha!'_. "Dude! What are you-?"

"You can't fool me, America!" He stuck his nose into the Tupperware and breathed in deep. "I know this is a trick! Its plastic, isn't it! A fake salad, how ridiculous, you—" He paused. Blinked. Sniffed.

The refreshing scent of fresh, crisp lettuce and citrus wafted up his nose.

. . . oh.

"England, bro, if you wanted some salad, you could've just asked."

England looked at America over the edge of the container. America smiled back at him, as cheerful as ever.

". . . where is the burger hidden, you whelp?"

"What burger? I didn't bring any for lunch, but—wait, what's a whelp?"

"It's hidden beneath the lettuce, isn't it!" _Ha!_ It was no coincidence that Sherlock Holmes was English! England, too, was a superb detective! He dug his fingers into the salad and rummaged around. "Where is it? You already ate it, didn't you? Pretending to eat a salad while you were _really_ eating the burger hidden within it. How terribly clever of you America, but not clever enough!"

There wasn't even a trace of grease at the bottom of the container.

Drat.

America jumped to his feet. "Augh! English germs all over my salad!"

_Drat._

"It's ruined!"

"Oh, be quiet. You probably weren't enjoying it, anyway."

"Nuh-uh, I totally was! Michelle made it for me!" America yanked his salad back out of England's hands and stared down at it mournfully. "She made it just the way I like it, too, with Mandarin oranges and chicken and those nuts that I think might be walnuts but I'm not really sure. . . ."

England deflated. "Oh. Oh, well, she did a fantastic job—wait a minute, what do you mean ruined? My hands are always clean, your bloody salad is just fine!"

France chuckled. "Oh, Alfred_,_ I would not touch that again if I were you. Have you heard of the plague-?"

"_Shut up!_"

"It's okay," America said. He perked up. "I brought extra! They're in the little fridge in my room, I'll just go back to the hotel and eat one. And since you already stuck your fingers all over it, England, you can have this one."

He pushed the salad back into England's hands. "You're so weird, England. See ya!"

England and France watched America grab his comic book off the ground and trot off towards the hotel across the street. He whistled as he went and waved cheerfully at anyone who happened to glance his way.

"H-he must be going to get some hamburgers he's stashed away," England said.

France eyed the Tupperware in his frienemy's hands. "I do not think so, _Angleterre._"

England dropped his eyes to the salad. The lettuce was still crisp, and the smell of the greens with the chicken and Mandarin orange wedges might have made his mouth water if he wasn't so worried.

America had _eaten_ that salad. And seemingly of his own free will.

Oh, good Lord, there was something wrong with his boy. England's hands squeezed the plastic container. America was eating a salad instead of hamburgers or pizza or ribs or anything else even slightly detrimental to his health, and he'd _brought extra._ And he was _excited about eating them_.

"There's something wrong with him," England said, eyes still on the salad. "Something must have happened—"

"Perhaps he is sick?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps it was the—" The insults. The name-calling. Poking his slightly pudgy belly? England cleared his throat. _Well._ If that was the case, then it wasn't just his fault! He was hardly the only nation to tease America in such a manner! He glared at France. "What are you just standing there for? Come along, let's figure out what's wrong with my b—with that idiot!"

France followed England back into the building, slightly disappointed that he'd missed out on his own lunch, but sharing England's fears that maybe America was secretly depressed and starving himself, using the salad as his only meal of the day. . . .

The idea that they could just _ask_ America what the heck was going on never crossed either of their minds.

Oh well.

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A/N: Updates may be slow in coming, but they _are_ coming...


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